


La Folie

by anniesburg



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: The Animated Series
Genre: Absolutely no over-arching plot, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Mutation-centric angst, just cute, one shot series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniesburg/pseuds/anniesburg
Summary: A one-shot collection detailing Hank McCoy's romantic escapades.





	1. La Folie

**Author's Note:**

> because hank deserves all the love on earth tbh.

The people behind you chitter and tweet, laughing to themselves like harpies. Beastly heads sit on beautiful bodies. The soft glow from the stage gives you a perfect view of their contorted faces when you look at them. They don’t see your indignant glare. 

You turn to your right, Hank is closer to them. For a moment, you feel terrible. This was supposed to be a smooth first date, just he and you. He appreciates a good symphony, you thought it the best way to make him happy. Is he happy? 

Studying his face, your eyes dart away when you realize he’s onto you. His eyes are hidden behind his half-moon glasses, but they drop a fraction to yours before you can look away. Flushing, you watch the conductor stand pin-straight and draw from his musicians an effortless talent. 

“They’re not bothering me.” he says, so quietly you have to wonder if he said anything at all. Hank is a contradiction the moment he opens his mouth, and you repress that twisting feeling in your chest at the thought of him lying to you. 

“It’s rude.” you hiss. He nods in agreement. You put your arm around his, sometimes that can help. His shoulders straighten and he keeps his eyes forward. His anatomy is an exaggeration, a question of the limits a human body can reach. If he were less of a gentlemen, the women behind you would be dead. You smile at that thought. 

It would be unprofessional to lean your head against his shoulder, but the night’s taken such a turn for the distasteful that you nearly consider it. As much as you’d like very much to be close to him, it seems Hank is determined not to be embarrassed, you’re all for that. 

“I’ll make it up to you.” you sigh, tilting your head up just enough. Your lips are nowhere near his ear, so tall is he but the thought seems to count. His smile is like a corkscrew, warm and wide and compressed into a thin line too soon. He shakes his head minutely and finally glances down at you. 

“Not necessary. I’m having a lovely time.” he replies, conscious of the people beside him. Hank has a good heart, you remind yourself, never one to ruin someone else’s experience.

You pat his hand instead of a verbal response and he seems to appreciate that. He returns to listening to the music, watching the solo violinist pour her heart out on stage. He closes his eyes, lets himself he transported somewhere better. His brow furrows just slightly as the volume behind the two of you increases. A laugh that sounds like a cackle has him opening his eyes again and exhaling. 

There’s still music bumping around your head as the lights come back up. You resist the urge to stretch as you stand, aware of your surroundings. That doesn’t stop you from picking up your handbag and taking Hanks arm as soon as your able. You wonder if he can see you desperately trying to find the quickest exit. 

One sits near the bottom of the stairs, leading upwards to the lobby while the other is at the back of the theatre. Turning, you see the women are watching you like hawks from a perch. 

No, not exactly. They’re not watching you, their eyes don’t leave Hank. Feeling something close to a protective instinct rise in your chest, you press it back into the spaces between your ribs. He can look out for himself, has been since before you were even a thought. You glance at him all the same and he attempts to ease your look of concern with one of reassurance. It half-works. 

Side-stepping your way towards the aisle, you lace your fingers through his and gently tug Hank along. You decide that the exit by the stage is the safest option. You make it four steps before it dawns on you that the chattering voices are staying at exactly the same volume as before. Hank doesn’t turn, but you do and to your horror, the women are following. 

A large, blue hand on your shoulder prompts you to keep walking. Hank’s face is an unreadable mask of blasé displeasure but he doesn’t appear worried. It seems he had the right idea, the women follow at a short distance but never extend their gossip to include either of you. 

Safe out on the busy, windy street, you set off together in search of a taxi. Now free of the societal expectation to be silent during a performance —some people evidently didn’t get the memo— his voice is slightly raised above the din of the city.

“Some people just want to look.” he assures you, but it doesn’t change the slightly sick feeling in your stomach. “But let’s not talk about that. Did you enjoy the music?” 

“I should be asking you that,” you respond, choosing not to comment on his earlier observation. Everything in his tone told you to drop it, and you’re nothing if not keen to respect his wishes. “I loved it.” 

Hank nods, that smile returning like a blinding light as he shows his pointed canines. You put your arm around him again, somewhat shocked by the sudden drop in temperature. Your heels clack against the pavement, animated discussion about conducting techniques and the flawless flute section charging the air between you. 

“My apartment isn’t far, we could just walk. I’m fond of the conversation.” you say, your smile matching his in enthusiasm. You were worried, palpably so that prior events might ruin your date. Hank appears more than willing to forget it ever happened, bless him. 

His laugh is a quiet thunderclap, a miniature storm that sizzles the atmosphere. He puts his hand on your lower back and you lean in towards his shoulder. 

“I’m flattered. Are you sure the weather permits that?” he asks, amusement crossed with slight bemusement evident on his face. You shrug. 

“I’m not cold.” you say. He lifts an eyebrow.

“I sense a lie.” he quips and you flash him a look that’s a bridge between flirtatious and annoyed. If you were an outsider looking in, you’d find the banter between you repulsive, but you’re not. A feeling similar to bubbling joy rises as he stops and unbuttons his overcoat. 

He puts it around your shoulders and the hem, on you, nearly brushes the ground. You slip your arms through the sleeves and he begins to walk again. 

“Thank you,” you say, slightly dazed, “I won’t forget mine next time.” he shakes his head as if it’s of little consequence. 

“If you’re warm enough, then I am more than happy.” you nod. Hank lifts his head, inhales the smell of exhaust and gasoline but catches a hint of your perfume on the wind. “The theatre was stifling.” he admits. “I’m grateful for the fresh air.”

“Then we should walk,” you say. “You can tell me about the symphony you saw with Mister Wagner and your students two weeks ago.” Hank’s eyes light up and you’re quite pleased with yourself. His passion is a particular brand of soft-spoken, but the interest in his voice speaks volumes. 

The two of you choose not to notice the people staring as the only time you look away from Hank is to see what’s directly in front of you.

Pulling on his arm again, you tug him into the lobby of your apartment building. Fishing your keys from your handbag, his coat slips down your shoulder. Slightly windswept and with cold cheeks, you start off towards the elevator. 

“I look frightful,” you say after pressing the button for the fourteenth floor. The three-quarter mirror on the opposing wall of the elevator really is a curse. With a ferocity, you attack your mussed hair. Hank puts a hand on your arm and his smile is somewhat dulled. 

“You look—” he begins, your head tilting to the side. “fine, just fine.” he finishes. A blush you can’t fight creeps up your neck. 

“If you say so,” you mumble, surrendering the fight. Your hands fall to your sides. The rest of the ride is spent in comfortable silence, you leaning with your cheek pressed to his suit-jacket-clad bicep. 

You let out a huff when the elevator dings and the doors slide open, almost annoyed at being interrupted. Hank lets you step out first and you wait for him before walking off down the hallway. Your keys are at the ready when you reach your door and the rush of warmth as you step inside is most welcome. 

Rather carelessly, you take off your high heels. Pretty things though they were, your toes are tired of being pinched. His coat, however, is treated far more gently. You hang it up for him, motioning with your head for him to explore your apartment while you lock up. 

Following slightly behind, he takes in your living room and—

“Would you look at that view.” he remarks like clockwork. You feel pride swell in your chest. 

“I’d better, or I’m paying buckets of rent for nothing.” he laughs and again, your heart soars. “Have a seat, Hank. Would you like a glass of wine?” he nods but doesn’t sit, instead peers over your shoulder as you retrieve the bottle. If he’s impressed, you can’t tell.

He occupies the mismatched armchair, somewhat distant from the couch you sink into. Looking at him across the room, you smirk and take a sip from your glass. 

“I noticed something when we were walking here, Hank,” you say. Your gaze out the window is sharply called to him when he sputters. Your eyes widen. 

“What were you going to say?” he asks, coughing gently and looking visibly embarrassed. You offer up a smile.

“You told me more about your students than you did the symphony,” you tell him, as innocuous as you please. You don’t want to ask, you don’t. “but that isn’t what you thought I would say is it?” 

“No, but I’m glad for the surprise.” he says with a note of finality to his voice. He sits back, seems to relax a little bit. “There is a play called Man and Superman famous for the line; he who can, does. He who cannot, teaches.” you lift an eyebrow. “Truthfully, I’ve found teaching to be one of the most rewarding occupations there is.”

You’re aware that there is something deep-rooted burning just beneath the surface of Hank’s sociable conversation. He was expecting you to comment on the people staring. Your heart sinks, but he unconsciously does not allow for it to fall too much. His feelings about teaching, his respect for young talent is difficult to be upset around. Tucking your knees up under you, you’re content to listen to him speak.

“It sounds like a remarkable place,” you offer up, leaning against the back of the couch. “goodness knows that mutant children need someone to look up to.” 

“You really are a flatterer.” he says, giving you a look that’s nevertheless affectionate. Shrugging, you stand up and offer to top up his glass. He takes it. 

“Hank,” you say after a moment. Placing your hand on the upholstery, you motion for him to move. “come sit with me.” it’s a moment before he does as you ask.

He sits between you and your view of the city, taking up a good portion of half of the sofa. Your arm rests along the back of it, parallel to his shoulder but not touching him. 

“I had a really nice time tonight,” you say. “I hope that you—”

“Believe me, I did.” he says. “thank you for being patient.” your face contorts just slightly. “I don’t suppose it’s easy—”

“May I kiss you?” you ask him before you can bite your tongue. He looks somewhat stunned. Your flush burns your cheeks. “the only thing that hasn’t been easy is waiting to ask if I could. You happen to be very handsome.”

For a moment, you wonder if you might end up watching Hank McCoy flounder. Instead, he just nods. You set your wine glass on the coffee table and turn so you’re kneeling on the cushion, facing him. 

The height issue is less pronounced at this angle, and you need only lift your chin a bit to kiss him as you asked if you might. Your eyes close, your hands resting on the expanse of his shoulders. Despite the chill outside, he’s warm as the sun in July. 

You sit back, having only asked for one kiss. His instinct is to lean in again, closer to you than before. Your hands, which remain on his shoulders prevent his embarrassed retreat. 

“May I?” he asks in kind. It’s your turn to nod. 

He minds his claws as he places a hand under your chin. Tilting your head manually, he kisses you again. Your arms wrap around his neck out of instinct, pulling him closer— even when his chest is firmly pressed against yours. 

The thundering of your heart is bared to him, but his own sensibilities are a mystery to you. He pulls away, inhaling as if he forgot to breath for a moment. Hank looks down between the two of you and your arms slip back to your sides. 

“I should be going, now.” he says. “thank you for the drink.” he stands, his back impressive and tense. Your eyes follow him.

Ask him to stay, you think. It’s the first date, you remind yourself. Still, ask him to stay, he’s leaving! You stand as well, following him as he moves towards your front cupboard. 

“We’ll do this again sometime?” you mean to insist, it sounds more along the lines of a weak plea. Perhaps you misinterpreted some sign, perhaps he simply is trying to spare your feelings. Foolish, you chastise yourself. 

“Oh, absolutely,” he says with an enthusiasm that surprises you. “next Saturday, provided you’ve no plans?” somewhat dazed, you nod. 

“Yes, I’d love to—” there’s a sense, you realize, of him wanting tonight to stay exactly as it is. He shrugs his coat on and you move to grab his arm instead of immediately unlocking the door.

Your third kiss is as soft as the last two, bordering on chaste. You feel his canines press into your lower lip but couldn’t feel fear if you tried. Hank looks practically dizzy when you break the kiss and unlock the door. 

For all his quotes and your attempts to match him in refinement, the two of you are still limited to the extents of your vocabularies. You would deeply like to pry his hand from the door and mutter something Shakespearian to convince him not to leave. He would like very much to stay as well. 

Instead, Hank nods at you once before saying his goodbyes and heading for the elevator.

But tonight, for all its faults, has been very good. Disappointment, some might argue, is an essential element to the human condition but neither of you feel anywhere close to it.


	2. Largo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hank smut's way too fun to write.

Hank kept his hand on your back for the duration of the ten-cent tour. You walked by a few classes in session, waved hello to a burly man who grunted in return. A beautiful woman with red hair gave you a smile that would have suited the face of someone much older than her. 

This is Hank’s family, you thought to yourself as you took in the richness of the setting you’re now accustomed to. This is his slice of history.

Perhaps that’s why you can’t bring yourself to mind when he confines himself to his lab for nearly a full day. He has experiments to check, samples to run tests on. He’s very bright, perhaps a little too bright and also terrible with time. 

He was counting ceiling tiles when you patted him on the back and told him to be upstairs before midnight. You don’t ask for much, you said. He nodded and seemed to hear you.

Evidently not. 

Shrugging on your pyjamas, you glance at the clock and mock-glower. Armed with a flashlight, you close the door to his bedroom behind you and set off for the laboratories. 

It’s eerie quiet after lights out, you notice as you pad your way down the halls. The odd student scurries out of your way before they can stop to realize you’re not a professor here. There’s a sense of nostalgic peacefulness, but you know deep down that you can’t get to the labs fast enough.

\---

The lab is a neutral shade of gray, likely unbearably stark during normal hours but currently lit only by one desk lamp. Hank labours over a microscope, makes a small noise of interest before writing something down in his notebook. The pen is dwarfed by his hand

“You said you’d come up to bed in half an hour.” Hank turns to the voice behind him, your voice. You sound somewhat annoyed, but understandably so. His smile is heartfelt and apologetic.

“Has it been much longer? Did I lose track of time?” you walk towards him and brace your hands on his shoulders, keeping him sitting at his microscope as you apply gentle pressure. He’s been rigid and motionless too long, his muscles have tightened into knots like they were made of braided sailing rope.

He shivers as you work to relax him, Hank is more than thankful the lab is vacant. Perhaps bringing you here was, dare he hope, a good idea? You seem to enjoy exploring, and are more accommodating than most in regards to his engagement to his work. 

“It’s two in the morning.” you whisper, close to his ear and the doctor seems shocked. Taking his glasses off and folding them into his breast pocket, he tries to turn and look at you.

Instead, you kiss his neck. That does worlds more for his relaxation than anything your mortal fingers can. His shoulders slump as you press feather-light kisses to the veins hitting from the line of his throat. A noise like a repressed groan leaves him. 

“I really am sorry.” he says and you hum in understanding. “What have you been doing to pass the time?” you nip his neck, just gently and he hisses.

“I read the sonnet collection you keep in your bedside drawer.” you whisper. It has the desired effect, the coarse, blue hair on the back of his neck stands on end.

“You went through my bedside drawers?” he doesn’t sound too cross, merely amused.

“I left the one you keep your porn in alone.” you mock-defend, delighted when your joke gets a laugh. “You work too hard.”

“Ah, but someone must.” he gestured vaguely to his research, the mess strewn across the desktop. “Lest the world fall to wrack and ruin.”

“Can you spare eight hours?” you ask. “No? I’ll have to convince you.” you nip his neck again, aiming to leave a mark that will be visible above the collar of his shirt. His large, blue hands press flat against the table, eyes closing. 

“Oh, you’re going to be the end of me, aren’t you?” you laugh softly and kiss the pressure point just behind his ear. You slip your hands forward, loosening his tie and pulling it down. How he manages to look so put-together every second of the day--- you get exhausted just looking at him sometimes. 

You’ve taught him well, however, and his hands stay out of your way while you’re exploring. His fists clench on the tabletop as you remove his tie and start to work on unbuttoning him. An outside observer might think Hank too put together, but you rather like the delicate balance between propriety and the scandalous. 

He might not. He turns his head towards you and his cheeks are a shade of purple. 

“Henry?” you ask, the lilt to your voice flirtatious but somewhat concerned. “Why don’t you come to bed?” he shakes his head and seems to be more than ready to participate. 

He stands, turning to you with his tie loose around his neck and his shirt unbuttoned. Your arms fall to your side and you step back. Why hasn’t he said anything? The moment your face contorts into confusion, his hand is on your cheek. 

Hank gives you a look, a fraction of mischief darting across his eyes. He strides across the room, a pace you’d have to sprint to keep up with and closes the lab door, locking it from the inside. 

When he turns back to look at you, you’re suddenly very aware of the heat behind the gesture. A few carefully placed kisses and touches have more of an effect on him than you’re used to. His outline of his cock is prominent in his trousers, not yet fully hard but---

The look on his face is almost embarrassed and he seems to realize exactly what he’s done. 

“Don’t,” you say as he turns to unlock the door. Hank, perfect Hank seems somewhat uncomfortable with the rashness of his actions but does as you tell him to. His hand falls away from the handle. You lift your arm. “Come.” 

It’s like you have a hold on his tie. Hank sheds his lab coat as he walks back to where you stand, stopping a foot away from you. 

“Here?” he asks as if he can scarcely believe you’d agree. After a moment of mock-thought, you nod.

“You’re the one who locked the door.” you say, warmth rising in your chest when he smiles and drops his gaze. 

“I intended to explain that away as a temporary loss of sanity.” you take it upon yourself to close the distance, well aware that Hank’s insecurities run as deep as a trench. Still, you understand his nerves. Your hands shake minutely as you resume undoing the buttons on his shirt. 

“I’d like you to temporarily lose your clothes,” his expression is amused but unimpressed. You shrug. “not the most elegant way of putting it, but it’s true all the same.”

Good, good, he seems to be relaxing again. Keeping the tension light and the atmosphere comfortably lax brings him out of his shell in a pinch. Heat pools between your thighs, a jolt of imagined electricity running through you as you press your palm to his warm chest. 

“Someone’s excited,” you say, your fingers running over his flexed abs. “I wonder why.” there’s a rumbling in his chest, Hank’s way of expressing his contentment. 

“You know perfectly well.” he replies, you lift an eyebrow. Your hand lowers an inch and his even breathing falters minutely. 

“Is there something you want, Henry?” your smirk is searing. “Use your words.” there’s that rumbling sound again, hardly dangerous yet. His lips pull back and he shows off his sharp canines.

He doesn’t say a word, just lifts a hand and places it over your own. Slowly, as if he too enjoys the teasing, he pushes your hand to the outline of his cock. You hiss and bite your lip. His cheeks stay their purple colour. 

“Is this what you want?” you ask, not expecting a response as you run your fingers over the thick outline of him. You feel him stiffen under your hand. Hank nods.

“God, yes. Yes it is.” glancing up, your eyes find his. He’s always so hesitant to touch you, more willing to let you explore while he drinks in your expressions. With your free hand, you end his one-sided show and grab his wrist. Firmly, you place his hand on your ass. 

He squeezes your flesh, rough palms over the fabric of your pyjama bottoms. Hank pulls you a little closer to him, your chest pressed to his. He’s warm, a contrast to the chill of the lab and you shiver instinctively. All motion slows to a standstill as he holds you, his head dropping to rest on top of yours. 

Neither of you are ones for slapdash lovemaking, even in a relatively public place. His hands are warm and exploratory, tracing up the line of your back and gripping you slightly when your own ministrations strike a chord in him. 

“Henry---” your voice is calm, even romantic as you take a step away. He releases you from his grip, eyebrow lifting as you sink down on your knees. Hank knows what to do, helping you with his belt nearly ripping open his zipper.

His cock is veined and straining even when it’s freed from its prior confines. Licking your lips, you lean forward and take the blueish head in your mouth. Hank’s idle hands don’t stay that way and soon they’re pressed lightly against the back of your head. Closing your eyes, you take more of him in your mouth.

He’s hot against your tongue, heavy and thick. His noises are barely above gasps initially but when you hollow your cheeks and give an experimental hum, something close to a roar sounds from above you. The pressure on the back of your head increases, guiding you. 

Hank is no longer silent, his hips stuttering towards you with groans to accompany them. He’s at least careful not to hurt you with his devastating thrust and tight grip. Bracing your fingers on his outer thighs, you keep the signal for him to stop close in the front of your mind. 

Instead, he’s the one to stop you. Hank’s hips still and the hands on the back of your head come to rest on your cheeks, pushing you back. Finally able to manage words, he growls “That’s enough.” you sit back on your heels, looking at his still-straining cock. 

“You want to come, don’t you, Henry?” you ask, sounding something like confused. He nods and holds his hand out to you to help you stand. 

“Of course, but not yet. I want---” he seems to visualize it and exhales slowly. “you, on the counter on the far wall.” your eyes widen. “May I?” he asks, and for once you’re not sure of his intentions. 

Nodding, Hank wastes no time in placing his hands on the backs of your thighs, pulling you up and forward. You let out a noise of surprise, your hands clawing at his shoulders before grabbing behind his neck. Your legs wrap around his waist, your hips pressing just above his.

“A little warning next time, huh?” you say, a laugh colouring your voice. Hank winks at you and walks forwards, strong arms never wavering. Your back hits the wall with a gentle thud and he sets you on the countertop, the height just perfect. 

“Are you all right?” Hank asks, looking down at you with something like concern in his eyes. You nod, pulling his hips closer to yours with your clenched legs as if to prove it. 

Letting go of his neck, you lift your hips and uncross your legs, pushing your pants and panties down your legs with a ferociousness that outmatches the ferocious one. You’re certain you’re slick and ready, you’d like him to take you now. 

If Hank’s at all put-off by your sudden desperation, he doesn’t let on. He steps out of the way so you can get your pants off, his hand descending between your legs the moment he can. Drawing your legs up, your heels catch the edge of the counter and you moan.

His fingers are thick and gentle, exploring you and touching the parts that haven proven to get the best reaction. You reach for him again, gesturing for him to move closer to you so you can hold him.

Grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, you rock your hips forward towards his hand. Hank does all that he can for you, pressing and rubbing your clit to get you ready. One arm leaves the back of his neck and snakes between the two of you. 

Pressing a finger inside yourself, the pace of your thrusting hips increases. 

“If I’d have known your intentions---” Hank stops himself from voicing what he intended to say. Instead, he braces a hand on the wall beside your head. His palms are huge, with five claw-tipped fingers digging into the sterile metal. 

His eyes don’t leave yours as you scissor your fingers, biting your lip to keep back a loud moan. There aren’t any dorms near by, at least, only empty classrooms with similarly dusky light. The shadows the two of you cast on the wall are distorted, entangled like tree branches. 

The hand still around his neck presses at the remaining tension you find there. The affection of the gesture keeps him significantly calmer, you’ve found and his head drops again. This time, he presses his forehead to your shoulder, kissing your collarbone through the thin material of your shirt. 

Your fingers slip from you, thoroughly wet and you doubt you can bear another second empty.

“Henry?” he lifts his head. “I’m ready.” 

With his free hand, Hank lines himself up against you. With a sigh, you feel that familiar stretch as he slips inside. Grasping at his back, you’re unable to bite anything back. Moaning loudly in his ear, you press your face into his neck.

A guttural sound from him has you shaking slightly. Sensations pile up, the sterile smell of the laboratory mixed with his cologne, his hand on the small of your back keeping him close to him. He fits, his hips between your thighs like some sort of lust-filled jigsaw. 

Then he begins to move and noises fall from your mouth faster than they can be muffled. His pace is tantalizing, anticipation building in you. He has the tendency to tease but never like this, he must want it to last. 

The veins on him drag against sensitive spots, making your toes curl. Your hips involuntarily buck against him and a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob rings through the lab. 

“If you plan on teasing me all night---” you pull away to tell him. Hank sees his opportunity and seizes it, pulling you into a crushing kiss. His teeth press into your bottom lip, nibbling gently in an attempt to endear you to the idea of going slow.

Exhaling, your grip on him loosens, you let him take his time. 

You’re content to let him draw from you a slow-building orgasm, but when his hand leaves the wall, his middle finger pressing against your clit you find the whole prospect laughably impossible again. 

“Hank, I love you.” you say, breathless and adoring. Your tone takes a sharp turn, “but if you don’t hurry up, I swear---” his bright smile tugs on his mouth. 

“You’re in no position to be bargaining.” he replies and you pointedly press back against his length. He groans and you give him a content smile. 

“Fuck me, sir.” and you know how difficult it is for him to resist that. His pace increases, matching the one you’d like and in hardly any time you’re close to screaming his name. With a final moan, you come around him.

He doesn’t last much longer, the shockwaves rolling through you easing him into the slower finish he set out to have. Now truly content, he slumps forward. His hips press into yours in shallow, slow movements until they finally still. 

“I love you, too.” he says, close to your ear. You turn your head kissing his cheek. 

You’re not sure how long the two of you stay fused together. His nose nuzzles your neck, kissing and nipping at your flesh while you play with his hair. Neither of you notice the night move.


	3. Rondeau

He loves it here so much, you can tell. Hank doesn’t have to say a word, doesn’t have to fit the complex feelings of acceptance into a handful of sentences. He enjoys politics, you suppose, giving young mutant children physical proof that people care for them. But there’s always another snobbish chairman to bang his head against. There’s always that spike of irrational fear. 

But it’s not here. Everyone dancing a respectable distance from each other doesn’t look twice at him. They’ve all gotten used to him, they groan when he assigns too much homework with no fear of being eaten. It hurts that it’s the closest he has to existing in a state of normalcy. You can’t imagine how much it hurts him.

Teenagers are wrapped up in their dates, busy blushing and inhaling pizza. You hover on the sidelines with him, watching to make sure nothing suspicious ends up in the punch. 

“Wild night.” you say to him with a slight incline of your head. The song’s tempo relaxes enough that some of the boys look panic-stricken. The first slow dance of the evening, you can practically feel the tremors. 

“For me, certainly,” he begins. You know he isn’t kidding. “It was either chaperone or find myself in an empty lab.” Hank smiles at you, showing off pointed teeth. How anyone could mistake it for a snarl is beyond you.

He likes a crowded lab, funnily enough. The students interested in science go to him for help, they tackle his theories. They challenge him and they’re not afraid of being eaten. Love him or hate him, they know him. 

“I’m just here to keep you company,” you admit. Hank’s smile grows, his face turning slightly away from yours. Biting sarcasm, attempts at wit, he’s heard it all. But genuine adoration is new, very new. You strike to make it less so. 

“I thank you for that. Logan looks—” he glances across the room to the wild-haired man. He’s canting his head along with the Celine Dion song playing from the loudspeaker, all that’s missing is the beer in his hand. “He’s fine company, but—” 

You reach out, patting his hand. You understand. Hank prefers you above all else, this comes with no caveat. He adores you with no asterisks. His hand turns towards yours, his larger palm pressing against your fingertips. Your fingers curl between his, giving a gentle squeeze. 

“I never went to my prom,” you admit. Hank nods. 

“I was nearly prom king,” you dislike the look of surprise on your face, but he appears unfazed by it. He’s something special, Hank McCoy. “While my final years in high school were relatively fraught, I was invaluable to the football team.” 

Your smile echoes his, blocking out the sound of singing in your ear. To combat the music the two of you turn your heads in the direction of the other, speaking quietly next to ears in voices just above a whisper. 

“But they didn’t crown you?” you ask. He shakes his head. 

“Like I said, that final year was relatively fraught with, well—” he trails off, your hand squeezes his again. He doesn’t have to mention it. You know he wasn’t always blue, but the other factors were enough that it didn’t matter. 

“A girl named Marissa won prom queen when I was at school. She was nice, deserved it. I’m unfamiliar with this year’s power couple.” and the topic of unpleasant school days is evaporated. Hank’s smiled a lot this evening, your pride blooms. 

“I suppose we’ll see.” he replies. 

“I want to dance,” you interject almost suddenly. “but you can’t watch kids and be romantic at the same time.” Hank’s laugh rumbles like a thundercloud in his chest. 

“Regrettably not,” he agrees. 

“Later. We haven’t danced since we met.” he seems to know that already. 

“I often do my best to scrub the memories of political dinners and dancing from my mind as soon as I’m able,” he says, “not so when I think of that night.” now it’s your turn to angle your head away from him. Hiding a blush, how childish. 

“You’re six foot and blue. Even if I wasn’t crazy about you, it’d be hard to forget.” you give thanks to Celine Dion, her voice drowns out his robust laugh. The hand holding yours becomes, slowly, an arm curling around your waist. 

“You were stunning, of course,” he continues. “And I’d never been asked to dance.” now that comes as something of a shock. 

“Never? Ever?” he shakes his head. 

“I imagine I wasn’t very inviting, in fairness.” Hank replies. You find yourself smirking. 

“I found you perfectly inviting, you must’ve been in a good mood.” he lifts an eyebrow, faux-considering the idea. 

“Perhaps,” 

“Aren’t I just the luckiest, then?” you ask, the rhetorical question giving way to a comfortable silence. His arm around your waist pulls you close to his side.

\---

The rest of the evening is mostly quiet chatter. Jean’s radiant, engaging you in small talk before seeking out Scott. You watch her go, unable to escape the feeling that you’re watching the sun set. How she embodies so much grace is thoroughly unknown to you. 

Professor Xavier takes a turn around the modified ballroom as well, catching your eye and giving you a similarly awe-inspired feeling. You’re aware suddenly of all the thoughts you shouldn’t be thinking, watching him stifle a smile before he looks away. Thank goodness, it pops into your head most uninvited. You can only hope he was out of range. 

The slow decline of the night into sluggish giggles and soft music is to be expected, approximately forty overtired teenagers settle into their exhaustion with small bursts of energized dancing. Bobby knows better than to try to make an ice rink at the centre of another school function, he and Rogue leave fairly early. 

A slight ringing occupies your ears when the proverbial storm of excitement lapses. A headache brews behind your eyes, uncomfortable but not enough to put you in a bad mood. 

It isn’t until curfew that everyone’s pushed off to bed, most of them only semi-reluctantly. Of the dozen left awake, very few demand more time to dance. Hank’s firm in his insistence that everyone’s tired, might as well go to bed now and be productive tomorrow. 

Despite your inclination to agree, you find yourself milling about at the centre of the dance floor, watching students leave and looking at all that you’ll have to help clean up when morning comes. There’s glitter everywhere, balloons and streamers tangled in a lovable sort of chaos. 

Your own prom wouldn’t’ve been this much fun, you understand. You’d’ve gone with someone unmemorable and the fragility of the teenage ego would’ve kept both of you from something really romantic. You watch Hank’s back, survey the way his shoulders are very slightly slumped. 

Jean and Scott are nowhere to be found. Logan’s disappeared in the figurative sense, Kurt more literally. It’s you and Hank standing in an empty ballroom. There’s a little bit of music left, something melancholy about love and forever. 

“I thought it’d never end,” you joke. You had fun, of course. Watching wasn’t as bad as it sounded in the long run. And you had Hank to talk to for most of it. 

“Come now, what’s more exciting than this?” he asks, making his way from the now-closed entrance doors to you. “I do hope you’re still in the mood for dancing.” you shrug.

“It’s later,” you admit with a hesitant smile. “I think I have enough energy left for one.” 

It’s not quite waltzing music, but the two of you don’t seem to care. Hank steps towards you, putting a large hand on your upper waist while you grip his shoulder. He takes your other hand, holding it at a relaxed ninety degree angle. 

He steps forward as you step back, falling into a seamless rhythm that clued you in to his perfection when you first met. It doesn’t feel the same, the venue’s changed and the staring eyes have all gone. Where you once imagined yourself the only two people in the room, it’s become a reality. 

“We should do this more often,” you say, tilting your head up to meet his eye. Hank looks down at you, over the rim of his spectacles. “you’re an excellent dancer.”

“I could say the same about you,” he agrees. His shoulders are still tense, he’s as drained of life as you are if not more so. Hank’s a little too used to pushing through bone-tiredness. 

You try your best to make the song fit into your traditional waltz, ignoring beats right and left. His feet don’t fall on yours even once as you’re whisked rather languidly around the circumference of the dance floor. You let him lead, the only point of contention clouding your first waltz together. 

“Back to the lab tomorrow?” he was invaluable setting up decorations, the six hours required for prep away from test tubes likely almost killed him. 

“Yes,” he says, ignoring the way your tone dances on teasing. You refuse to let it die. 

“I’d be concerned if you didn’t. Remember to take breaks, eating is important” your voice fully tips into gentle mockery now. Hank has the audacity to look flustered. 

“It was only once, dear,” he begins, “and I haven’t any time since.” canting your head, you seem to consider it. 

“But it’s a lot more fun to never let you live it down,” a pause. But you’re tired, he won’t fault you for letting affection creep into the conversation. “besides, it gives me an excuse to come check on you.” 

“You hardly need an excuse for that,” Hank reminds you. 

“I don’t like bothering you,” you say. “all jokes aside, there’s a reason you spend every waking second glaring into microscopes.”

“You could never bother me,” his tone of reassurance mimics yours, unabashedly sentimental. What on earth have your done to him, and he to you?

“A challenge!” you declare, “you’ll live to regret that.” and the comfortable silence settles in once more.

Your headache throbs in as gentle a way as headaches can. The relative weakness to it doesn’t make it pleasant, but it’s a good enough excuse to lean forward and press your cheek to Hank’s chest. And still the music goes on, dragging. In spite of the headache, the promise of more work tomorrow you don’t particularly want to see its end.

But it does end, eventually. Hank seems to be just as put-out by it as you, although social exertions appear to be taking as much of a toll. The two of you stand still when the music fades and doesn’t return. Your hand on his shoulder turns to an arm around his neck. 

“I like it here,” you begin. “it feels a lot like home.” 

“It has that effect on people, doesn’t it?” Hank replies. You hum, a soft sound of agreement. “I should get you to bed.” he finishes. Another hum, a little louder this time as the spell’s broken. You straighten up, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. 

The knowledge that you had fun goes unspoken but truthful. His arm leaves your waist and yours his shoulder. Hand-in-hand, you make for the door, your shoulder bumping into his almost playfully. 

“I wish I knew you when I was seventeen,” you start, not intending to be especially serious. Lighthearted conversation suits after-midnight hours. “I was thinking that when you were talking about how school was for you.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, not needing to guide you through the wood-panelled corridors. You know your way now. “I was an insufferable child.” your giggle makes him smile, too. 

“Insufferable, I think you mean football star and kid genius. You could’ve helped me pass chemistry.” the door to his room, in which you’ve laid claim to a few drawers draws closer. Your shoulder bumps his again as he unlocks it. 

“Or convinced you to go to prom?” he muses, almost idly. Your heels help with the height difference, giving you the extra inches necessary to kiss his cheek. 

“Absolutely.” the door swings open and you follow him inside.


End file.
